


Little Lion Man

by TeddieJean



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And Bellatrix, And Remus Lupin, Blackcest, End of Marauder Era, F/F, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter was Raised by Sirius Black, M/M, Post-First War with Voldemort, Second War with Voldemort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:05:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9120880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddieJean/pseuds/TeddieJean
Summary: When the Dursleys prove unfit guardians for the young savior of the Wizarding World, a glitch causes the guardianship of three-year-old Harry Potter to pass on to two prisoners who fought on opposite sides of the war.  Alongside their old allies, the eldest two members of the two Houses of Black must reconcile their differences in order to salvage their last hope for happiness.





	1. Before: August 19th-28th, 1983

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is probably going to be long, and I don't know exactly how often I'll be able to update. I've finally decided to post this first part just to get it out here, and as you can probably see, I'm experimenting a little bit with format.
> 
> Basically, the beginning of this is set in 1983, when Harry has been at the Dursleys' and Bellatrix and Sirius have been in Azkaban for two years. As for ages, Harry is three, Sirius is twenty-three (almost twenty-four), Snape is twenty-four, Bellatrix is thirty-one/two-ish, Andromeda is thirty, and Narcissa is twenty-eight. We'll see about everyone else. Set in almost the Marauder era since this is just after the First Wizarding War.
> 
> *This fic operates under the (now apparently incorrect) assumption that Harry is related to the Blacks through Charlus Potter, assumed to be his grandfather, making him Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa's second cousin.*

_Little Whinging, Surrey_  
_August 19th, 1983_

The boy is skinny; far too skinny, she decides. She first noticed it some time ago at the birthday party of a boy on their block. The family of three plus their spurned extra attended the outdoor event, and she observed over her rosebushes the loud games and rowdy behavior of the neighborhood toddlers. Of the twenty or so in attendance, he had been by far the smallest, of the group, though by no means the youngest child there. She watched for a long time, neglecting her watering, as the others pushed the small boy roughly and ignored his attempts to join in their play.

He sits now on her living room couch, short legs stuck straight out in front of him, watching the local news program. Even from the kitchen, she can see that he is making a true attempt at paying attention, but that his little head keeps dropping sleepily, only for him to catch himself and jerk back into consciousness. She’s already suggested to him, more than once, that he take a nap in her guest room, but he has informed her that such an indulgence is not permitted. She surveys his baggy clothes and scrawny shoulders, the too-bony hands folded primly in the lap of his castoff bluejeans. A frown knits her brows — this isn’t right.

He’s only three as of a few weeks ago, a baby by all standards. To see him sitting so still with his solemn eyes and worn-out clothing, attempting so valiantly to resist sleep, makes her hands shake with more than age. She hears the man bellowing at him night and day, has seen the woman strike out at him with a broom or rag or hedge clippers; anything handy that will sting upon impact. The son bullies him dreadfully.

Anxiety stirs; this situation is so close to overstepping the line of unacceptable. She wishes to tip the balance, to contribute, to act as she has never been able to in the world she knows of but can never truly join. She will not force the situation to a head; it isn’t her place, to start with, and there isn’t enough evidence to suggest that the boy does not have a reasonable chance of growing up happily . . .

A tiny cough snags her attention faster than Tufty does a mouse. Dropping the vegetable knife on the counter, she hobbles around to the couch. The child’s cheeks are pale, his eyes unfocused.

“P’ease,” he requests quietly. “May have some water? If it’s ‘tay.” He raises his arm to cover his mouth as another cough shakes his thin chest. Murmuring assent, she hurries back to the kitchen to fill a glass with cool water from the tap, then returns quickly to press it into his hands. His hands are shaking too badly to hold it; she helps him lift it to his lips and swallow.

His eyes are closed, now, his head still held shakily upright.

“T’ank you.” The veins in the backs of his hands are visible, and she may be considered handicapped by the world in which she doesn’t belong, but she’s not stupid. She knows the signs of dehydration.

“How long has it been since you’ve had a drink of water?” she asks him, afraid of the answer yet simultaneously hoping for it, and despising herself for that. His body is wavering, about to topple.

“Su’day.” It’s been two days. Her lips thin out.

“And food?”

“Day b’fore.” He has forgotten the name for it; he’s young. It’s understandable.

“How do you know when it was?”

“Dat was da day Dudley b’oke his telly. B’amed me. No . . .” a massive yawn interrupts him “ . . . no food.” She stands up; she has heard enough.  
  
“Sleep,” she orders him, and finally, he’s too weak to protest. As he sinks back into the cushions, she only takes a moment to ensure he isn’t in a position to give himself a neck ache. Once she is certain he’s asleep, she hobbles rapidly into the next room and takes a pinch of Floo powder from the pot on the mantlepiece. She has all the evidence she needs.

She will not facilitate the downfall of the Boy Who Lived.

* * *

 

_The Hall of Records, British Ministry of Magic_  
_August 20th, 1983_

“It has been a long time since we’ve seen anything like this.” They have been called in on a day off, the two older wizards, at the bidding of a young man new to the department and frantic with uncertainty. _Something came up,_ his squirrel Patronus informed them. _Something big, and I don’t think I should handle it on my own._

“It has happened before.” Despite the suddenness and oddity of the situation, they have both retained a certain level of calm. Of course, it is always difficult, among the shelves in the coolly lit room, to feel anything but tranquil.

“But _cousins_ ,” Perks, the younger of the pair, protests. They have paced the length of this particular aisle for nearly a quarter of an hour, deeply absorbed in consideration.

The elder wizard shakes his head; the tip of his long beard flutters with the movement.

“These Contracts are binding; a guardianship cannot be annulled unless all available options have been exhausted.”

“But consider who they _are_ ,” Perks continues. “Criminals, Bode; they’re _criminals._ They’re Death Eaters; murderers. They’re living out _life sentences_ in Azkaban. How can we possibly justify any child, especially _this_ child, being handed over to either of them?” Bode ceases to pace, coming to a halt before the open file, its contents spread all across the floor. The gold of the Binding ink is blindingly bright in the shadowy chamber. He doesn’t look at Perks as he speaks.

“We’ll have to prove them innocent.”

_“Innocent?”_ Perks’s voice has risen half an octave with incredulity. Bode doesn’t removed his gaze from the documents; his eyes are following the movements of the occupants of a family photograph in which a young man and women wear matching scowls and attempt to stand as far from one another as possible, separated by the rest of the family.

“A virtue, yet one that always seems to do far more harm than good,” he murmurs.

Perks chooses not to reply.

* * *

 

_Hogwarts Castle, Scotland_  
_August 20th, 1983_

“I suggest that — ”

“I’ve told you, I don’t wish to hear it! I’m through listening to your vows and logic, Albus; what good has ever come of any of it?” Dumbledore watches the distraught Potions Master pace his office relentlessly, dark robes billowing out behind him and swishing dangerously close to delicate objects on each turn.

“Severus — ”

“No,” Snape interrupts, coming to an abrupt halt in front of the desk and bearing down on Dumbledore, who despite the furious light of hysteria in Snape’s eye remains rather calm. “If you had not placed the boy with the Muggles, we would not have the entirety of the Wizengamot in an uproar; if you had not been so confident in your abilities to protect the family, you would have seen the flaws in your plan; and if, Albus, you had sworn me into silence rather than use me as a spy for the Light, the Dark Lord would never have heard of the Prophecy, and Lily Evans would not be dead. You will excuse me if I have very little tolerance for your inane, self-centered schemes.”

Dumbledore merely watches him, his expression as placid as ever, a fact that Snape finds monumentally infuriating.

“Have you no shame? Do you feel no sorrow for the tragedies you have helped to bring about? If I were a lesser man — ”

“If you were a lesser man, Severus, you would not berate me for my shortcomings. A better man than I you are by far, though, I confess, rather blinded to that fact. I feel the utmost regret for all who have suffered at my hands, and believe me when I say that the guilt is plentiful, for the list is rather long. I do not begrudge you your anger, Severus,” he continues, a touch louder, when Snape shows every sign of interrupting. “The sentiment is well-directed. However, I urge you to set aside your resentment for merely a moment so that we may consider this situation with greater scrutiny.”

“That’s another thing!” Snape exclaims hotly, whirling about to resume his pacing. “You ask of me an opinion that I should not have; never, amongst any possibilities, should you consider my view on this particular predicament. You have countless advisors at your disposal, both greater and wiser than I, and yet you have called _me_ here with the asinine assumption that my opinion will serve you some great wisdom.” Dumbledore’s eyes flash momentarily with their customary twinkle. Fortunately, Snape is completing a turn beside Fawkes’s perch at that very moment, and notices nothing.

“Once again, you prove that the very best of me is far more unreasonable than the worst of you, my boy. I am more than aware that the request may seem highly irrational, but I have found that the least irrational decisions tend to yield results that are, at the very least, intriguing enough to offset any negativity. In fact, I think that my ability to procure unusual outcomes from distorted situations is, frankly, rather impressive.”

“You expect a lack of bias on my part in a situation — ”

“I expect a lack of bias on your part regarding the boy’s predicament because I know that you would never dream of allowing your emotions, dare you to have them, to have any sway in your actions. You and I are far from diplomatic, Severus, but do not doubt me when I say that your view of this matter will be far more rational than mine or that of any of those greater and wiser advisors that you mentioned,” Dumbledore says deliberately, watching Snape halt once again, halfway tangled in his robes, to stare at the Headmaster with wild eyes.

“James Potter’s boy, Albus, and you expect me to remain unaffected by prejudice?” For a moment, Dumbledore says nothing, but merely eyes him over the rims of his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers pressed together. Snape is breathing heavily, his eyes fastened on a point somewhere near the middle of the old man’s beard.

“Perhaps not James Potter’s boy, no,” he says slowly. The words are imbued with utmost poignance as his gaze becomes more pointed. “I do, however, know for certain that there isn’t a thing you wouldn’t do to ensure the wellbeing of Lily Evans’s son. If it will help you to face it, you may consider him your own — ”

_“Enough.”_ The solitary word is as icy as the Black Lake’s depths as Snape’s eyes turn suddenly cold. Dumbledore has the sense to realize he’s gone too far as the younger man approaches the desk again, this time to lean on it with his fingers gripping the edge of the polished wood. Snape towers over him, expression closed and hard. “I will entertain your foolish notions to a point, Dumbledore, but I will not be manipulated. I will serve as a witness in Lestrange’s case, but only if you are under the understanding that my loyalties or lack thereof will play no part in assuming the responsibility.” He thrusts himself from the desk with his palms with vigor.

Snape seems to realize the moment he stands of how much depth of emotion he has displayed, for an unsettled expression settles over his sallow features, though one that he quickly schools. Dumbledore still regards him over his spectacles, a sad sort of smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“And that, Severus, is why you prove yourself once again to be the better man.” When Snape’s eyes meet his again, they are endless.

“No one else, Albus,” escapes him in a low tone. “No one else shall suffer; no one else whom I can save.”

* * *

 

_An Unplottable Island in the North Sea_  
_August 21st, 1983_

Through the heavy and unnatural fog that steeps the entirety of Azkaban’s islet in its bitterness, a sudden, narrow flood of warmth and light spills into Sirius’s chest, rousing him. Deprived of it as he is, he is unable to recognize it at its first brush into the corners of his cell. Eyelids glued closed, it takes him a moment to register the absence of the bone-deep chill he has become accustomed to; the delicate fingers of warmth tickling his veins give the impression of ice being shaken from the folds of a cloak, perhaps one worn by a shivering soul.

The first thing he notices is that _she_ isn’t screaming, and neither is he, which means that something is amiss; usually he starts in just as she is winding down. Sometimes, for no reason that he can decipher, she will carry on a bit longer, and their shrieks will end up overlapping, a hoarse, shrill sound too dull to pierce their eardrums but just sharp enough to edge its way beneath their skin and into their bloodstream where it will attempt to offset their pulses. They have never both been silent before, and the realization snags on something in his muted brain. Besides the unwanted recognition of his innocence, it’s the first coherent thought he’s entertained in nearly two years, and he can feel the thrum of it all throughout his body. Though clear and vibrant, it is not quite potent enough to be intrigue; it resembles more closely the thoughts one has upon waking, halfway between consciousness and sleep.

Nevertheless, it’s strong enough to make him move.

His legs don’t work as they should; he didn’t expect them to, and somehow his lack of expectations allows him to manage the short distance between his pallet on the floor and the barred door of his cell. Dragging himself to the door to peer blearily through the bars, Sirius is mildly surprised to discover that his muscles can recall movement at all. Always, the chill of the Dementors penetrates too deeply to allow for the expenditure of energy, and the sudden absence of it spurns a desperate need for motion.

The source of the light emits from several areas of the corridor; the most prominent lies outside his door and two cells to the left; her cell. Someone farther down the corridor is stationed at the stairwell, illuminated by the blinding glow of a Patronus. From the group closest to him, gathered, presumably, several paces out of his field of vision, a low rumble of voices floats to his ears in unintelligible waves. He strains to listen, but only succeeds in catching a few half-mumbled phrases that consist of nothing particularly enlightening.

He is rewarded, several minutes later, by the passage of two Aurors by his door, Patronuses dancing in front of them, incorporeal; amateur. Hardly a moment later, a guard, distinguishable by the drabness of his uniform, follows as closely as he can manage given the limp form of the woman draped over his arms like a pile of laundry. He has neglected to support her neck; it hangs limply over his forearm.

“You should be more careful.” Sirius is surprised, too, to find that he can speak, that his muscles have recollections beyond his conscious grasp. It offers him a little comfort to know that he has not yet entirely lost his grip; he remains, as yet, at least partially human.

The guard is surprised, too. He glances down, sees her neck lolling. Eyeing Sirius with a nod, he pauses to shift her weight, hefting her up higher in his grasp so that her head is cradled in the crook of his elbow. She does not move; he doesn’t seem to be expecting that she will.  
 “We’ll be right back for you,” he promises. Though without a single idea of what could be meant, Sirius nods, quite unperturbed. The guard seems to know enough of what he is about, and Sirius leaves him to it, feeling the chill spread back through his bones with the retreat of the Patronuses, turning him back to stone where he stands as they disappear down the staircase.

They do come back for him, perhaps hardly a quarter of an hour later, but by then, he is cold again, and as unaware as she.

*******

He wakes in the infirmary. At least, that must be what it is; he was unaware that such a place existed in Azkaban — for that is still most certainly where they are. Despite the obvious attempts that have been made to place warming charms on the small chamber, a slight chill from the Dementors above still drifts down through the stone. The place is absent of screams, however, perhaps due to a silencing charm. Sirius doesn’t quite know what to make of the ringing the stillness has left in his ears.

Upon blinking his eyes open, he discovers that he has been placed in a bed of the sort occupying the Hogwarts hospital wing, or perhaps a ward at St. Mungo’s; hard, narrow, and wretchedly uncomfortable. However, where the sheets in former were bleached a blinding white, the thin material that has been tugged over his torso is grimy, stained with healing potions and a variety of suspicious other substances, the origins of which he would rather refrain from contemplating. An equally filthy curtain surrounds the bed, preventing him from taking in any other aspect of his surroundings.

It hardly matters, for within a matter of moments, a dreadful heaviness overtakes his head, and he sink once more into restless sleep.

The second time he wakes, he is no longer alone; blinking to clear the fog from his mind, he can hear someone shuffling about on the other side of the curtain.

The sudden appearance of a middle-aged wizard, thin-browed and hollow-cheeked, from behind the grungy fabric jolts him into sitting up. In doing so, Sirius is surprised to find that while the same, bone-deep chill still lingers in his body, the twinge of cramped muscles has rather lost its potency. His lungs, too, feel less chalky than before; he huffs out a dry cough to test them, and discovers that they are significantly more functional.

He focuses his aching eyes on the wizard now busying himself with a levitating tray of potions. Human features, he discovers, are rather a shock to the vision after over two years of seeing only the shapeless black fabric that obscures a Dementor’s face.

“Why?” is the only thing he manages to croak out, but the wizard seems to understand. Setting down the tray, he disappears momentarily around the edge of the curtain, to return moments later with something clutched in his hand.

“That’s why.” The _Daily Prophet_ lands in Sirius’s lap with a thump, face-up, the headline flashing up at him.

_Notorious Death Eaters Stand Trial: Cases of Bellatrix Lestrange and Sirius Black to be Reexamined by Wizengamot._

When unconsciousness beckons, Sirius yields to it willingly.

* * *

 

_A Courtroom, Wizarding London_  
_August 27th, 1983_

“We have gathered here in court and council to reevaluate the criminal case of Bellatrix Gwenyvere Lestrange, neé Black. Requesting confirmation of presence of the following: Chief of Council.”

“Chief of Council, Emmeline Vance.”

“Confirm: Governor of Council Affairs.”

“Governor, Amelia Bones.”

“Confirm: Senior Secretary.”

“Senior Secretary, Mafalda Hopkirk.”

“Confirm: Head of Department of State and Status.”

“Head of Department, Dirk Cresswell.”

“Confirm: Chief Auror, case-assigned.”

“Chief Auror assigned, Alastor Moody.”

“Confirm: Director of Criminal Affairs.”

“Director, Sturgis Podmore.”

“Confirm: Prime Investigator.”

“Prime Investigator, Artemus Dawlish.”

“Confirm: Scribe.”

“Scribe, Horatio Abbott.”

“Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.”

“Chief Warlock, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.”

“Defensive witnesses approved?”

“Witnesses sworn: Dai Llewyn; Andromeda Tonks; Severus Snape; Edward Vance; Narcissa Malfoy.”

“Confirmed. On this date, the twenty-seventh of August, nineteen-eighty-three, Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic and judge presiding, conducts the post-incarceration trial of Bellatrix Lestrange, henceforth referred to as the accused, in the presence of the full Wizengamot as dictated by the laws set forth by the aforementioned. Do I have confirmation?”

“Confirmed, Your Honor.”

“Trial commencing: Chief Warlock will read the full criminal statement.”

“Thank you very much, Cornelius. _November twenty-ninth, nineteen-eighty-one. At precisely eight-ought-two PM Greenwich Standard Time, Aurors apprehended Bellatrix Gwenyvere Lestrange, neé Black, as she and her companions (husband Rodolphus Lestrange, brother-in-law Rabastan, and Death Eater Bartemius Crouch, Junior) performed the Cruciatus Curse on Aurors Francis and Alice Longbottom to the point of insanity. As such, and as a known Death Eater and public supporter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be_ — honestly, Cornelius? — _Named, Lestrange was convicted of war crimes including the use of an Unforgivable Curse. Sentence: life incarceration at Azkaban Wizarding Prison._ Really, quite a nasty business.”

“Chief Warlock will not include his opinion in the criminal statement.”

“Quite right; my apologies. I was merely taking the opportunity to verbally express the cringes exhibited by every occupant of the room.”

“Chief of Council will read the trial statement.”

_“August the twenty-seventh, nineteen-eighty-three. This trial stands for the case of three-year-old Harry James Potter. The Boy Who Lived was removed from his current place of residence at Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey on Tuesday the nineteenth of August after a fire-call placed by Little Whinging resident, Squib Arabella Figg, to Albus Dumbledore (head of guardian-placement at the time of the deaths of Lily and James Potter), regarding the treatment of Harry Potter by his Muggle guardians, Vernon and Petunia Dursley._

_Having declared the aforementioned Muggles unfit guardians, guardianship of Harry James Potter is, according to magical law, passed on to the closest childless female relative, in this case the accused, Bellatrix Lestrange. However, due to the naming of Sirius Black as godfather in the last Will and Testament of Lily and James Potter, and according to the Unbreakable Guardianship Binding Contract, the guardianship of Harry James Potter now applies simultaneously to Black and Lestrange, unless one or both of the former should be determined unfit guardians. The entirety of the case of the accused will be reviewed by the full Wizengamot, presiding judge, and approved witnesses. The trial will proceed under the assumption that the accused has been proven guilty, and as such, evidence will be produced to the contrary, and either validated or countered. Due to the accused’s absence, witnesses will provide the appropriate evidence.”_

“Thank you, Chief of Council. Our statements being read, this trial is now in session. The primary declaration states that the accused suffers from a congenital psychological disorder that influenced her actions and that, rendering her unsound of mind, should have prevented her from being criminally convicted, as she was unable to properly stand trial. Chief Warlock.”

“Thank you again, Cornelius; we shall proceed. First witness to the stand, please, and state your full name and occupation.”

“Dai Rosamunda Llewyn, Head Healer of the Department of Mind and Memory at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.”

“Madam Llewyn, please relay to the court a full account of your knowledge of the accused’s psychological state. Start at the beginning.”

“Nearly thirty years ago, Cygnus Black paid a visit to my office at St. Mungo’s and requested a private meeting. He informed me that his eldest daughter Bellatrix — Black, then — was suffering from frequent boughts of strange delirium. He described the episodes as a sort of switch being flicked in his daughter’s mind; while normally she behaved as any other child, though a self-assured and uncommonly passionate one, these fits would transform her into a raging monster. She would scream and spout unsettling words and attempt to destroy the house and injure her family members. I asked him to call me to his home should she exhibit such behavior again, and hardly a day later, he did.

“Upon arriving at Black Manor in Aberdeen, I found the Lord and Lady Black barricaded in the parlor while the young Miss Black ran rampant upstairs. The younger girls, I was informed, were visiting family. I ascended to the upper floors, Disillusioned, and found Miss Black walking purposefully from room to room, banging on the doors. Her eyes were entirely black, alight with some sort of inner fire, her posture strangely rigid. She was smiling — _grinning_ — in a way that was almost sickening; definitely malicious. After trying all the doors upstairs, she descended to the first floor, where she walked up and down the hallways, opening and shutting the door to every room. When she reached the parlor, she seemed to sense that they were there; she stopped, and called out.

“Her voice was . . . it was positively _chilling._ The grin remained on her face as she called to them all; sweetly, but with an unmistakable tone of malevolence and mania. It promised torture. Having no response from them, she stood back, and I understood that she intended to blast the door open. I immediately Stunned her. When she came to, she was quite pleasant, as normal and friendly as any child would be. I determined immediately to speak with her.

“For several hours, made comfortable in the drawing room, we discussed many things: Quidditch, her pet Niffler; the situation in the Far East — besides being remarkable intelligent, and undeniably passionate, there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. She seemed to remember nothing of the strange fit. In fact, when I asked her whether she had ever considered hurting her family, even in a moment of anger, she was shocked and horrified at the very thought of it. I saw immediately that this was a severe case of a rare and little-known psychological disorder, and that though it had undoubtedly been present since her birth, it was growing in strength as her awareness of the world around her grew.”

“How old was the accused at the time, Madam Llewyn?”

“Oh, I’d say no more than six years old.”

“And what is this disorder that you speak of?”

“An obscure breed of dissociation and psychosis resulting from close and repeated inbreeding. Quite common in the old days, but less so now with the heightened awareness of the ramifications of such relationships. It has been so rarely reported, especially as families tend to keep those affected concealed from the public eye, that it has been given no name. When discussed, which is rare, we Healers refer to it as a psychotic personality disorder.”

“Did you treat the accused for her disorder?”

“To say so would be using the term loosely, Chief Warlock. There is no approved path for treatment, and when attempted, it rarely produces results. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, there is no improvement. I did prescribe a selection of potions for her to take, but only during severe episodes. The potions are extraordinarily dangerous when consumed in large quantities.”

“Madam Llewyn, if the accused was so severely out of her mind, why, then, was she able to attend school as a teenager under all pretenses of being normal?”

“That’s the odd part, Chief Warlock; while the potions I prescribed seemed to have very little effect, Miss Black, by the age of eleven, seemed entirely sane but for very occasional boughts of madness; an impossibility as far as I could reckon. The potions alter the brain chemistry enough to stem the force of the symptoms, not to control the actual disease. The disorder itself has nothing to do with physical or chemical disturbances; rather, it is the subject of one of those deeper sciences, of mind and memory and being — the _substance of thought_ rather than the _act of thinking_ , if you understand me.

“What I found was that, impossibly, Miss Black seemed able to erect a barricade of sorts in her own mind, a mental block against her madness. What was even stranger than that was that she seemed to be able to _control_ it; she could remove the barrier of her own volition — the result being the sporadic fits of insanity. It was almost as though it was _manipulated, selective_ insanity; she could lower her defenses when she so desired — or rather, when she _required_ it. She seemed to employ her madness for her own benefit as though it were a marionette.  It was unlike anything I had ever seen, especially when considering that one afflicted with the disease is generally not aware of being so.”

“Madam Llewyn, if we are to go along with the assumption that your theory is correct, how do you explain why, after being able to control her mind for so long, the accused lost control, transforming her into the criminal we are discussing?”

“It is my guess, Chief Warlock — and this is but a guess, mind you — that when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named rose to power and Miss Black joined his ranks, she subscribed so vehemently to his beliefs and was so eager to prove herself worthy that she dropped her wards intentionally so as to fully serve him. We all have born witness to her devotion; it is virtually unparalleled, and blatantly unhinged. It is my belief that she let herself go intentionally in order to be of use to him — and then, once the ball got rolling, it was impossible to stop. This disease, if permitted to progress, has an unbreakable grasp. Once its severity reached a certain point, she would have been unable to fight it on her own.”

“Thank you, Madam Llewyn; you may step down from the stand. Now, I believe that our second witness has something to contribute.”

“Indeed I do.”

“Step up, please, and state your full name and occupation.”

“Severus Tobias Snape, Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

“Mr. Snape, what is your motive in standing here today?”

“Objection: the jury shall not be permitted to cross-examine the witness.”

“Objection sustained. Proceed, Chief Warlock.”

“Your Honor, might I suggest that it is unwise to pay much heed to the information given by this particular witness?”

“Objection: the jury will not interject.”

“Objection sustained.”

“I was only commenting that it’s hardly _just_ to have one known Death Eater vouch for another, Your Honor.”

“Objection! _Jury will not interject._ ”

“ _Sustained._ No prejudices may enter this trial, nor will witnesses be held in regard of their past actions. This trial is being held for _Bellatrix Lestrange._ ”

“We all know he was a spy and a double agent! What makes you so sure he can be trusted to provide accurate information?”

“Silence. This is a court of law. Severus Snape has been acquitted of all charges. He has been sworn in as a witness. The topic of interest to us today is Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“He’s a Death Eater!”

“Honestly, my dear man, were not just now requested to remain silent?”

“ _Order in the court._ Mr. Podmore, kindly escort Mr. Spinnet from the courtroom. Mr. Cresswell, please see to it that Mr. Snape knows he is free to speak.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And that would be _Professor_ Snape, if you please.”

_“Severus.”_

“Apologies, Headmaster. Proceed.”

“Professor Snape, as a Master of Occlumency, can you confirm the possibility of the nature of the mental barricades Madam Llewyn believes the accused to have placed? Is such a thing possible?”

“While quite rare and exceedingly difficult to manipulate, such blockades are possible to establish. Perhaps it is convenient in Lestrange’s case that they remain practically unheard of, but for all intents and purposes, yes: it is possible.”

“Professor Snape, in light of the accused’s absence, can you speak to the validity of the claims that the accused did establish such mental barricades in her youth, allowing her to lead a virtually normal life, only to dissolve them upon cementing her affiliation with Voldemort? For Merlin’s sake, Cornelius, there’s no need to flinch. It is a _name._ Think of him as Rufus, say, or Billy-Bob if you must, should it make you more comfortable; his title does no more damage than that.”

“With all due respect, Dumbledore — ”

“I believe the Chief Warlock is awaiting my response, Minister. To establish such barriers would be extraordinarily difficult even in the best of circumstances; one would require an unbelievably strong will and attentiveness as well as unwavering dedication, focus, acquired skill, and natural talent. Bellatrix Lestrange possess all of those qualities, so to answer your question more directly, as it is the only current explanation, I do believe that she did so.”

“You believe that she managed such a feat even hindered by an illness that would surely detract from all of the qualities you mentioned? You believe that even while insane the accused could have managed to perform an already incredibly difficult task?”

“You asked me before whether I believed she _did_ ; now you are inquiring as to her _ability_ to do so. Exactly what are you asking me, Chief Warlock?”

“Do you believe that Bellatrix Lestrange controlled her own madness until the point at which she felt the need to relinquish that control in order to give her devotion to Voldemort free reign? And, if you believe so, how did she manage it when already in the grasp of insanity?”

“I believe she did; I have no other explanation for her behavior. As the court is obviously aware, I worked closely with her during the Dark Lord’s reign. I shared her company on a daily basis, and the description of the disorder precisely matches the behavior I bore witness to, though what I experienced was a much more rampant version. Bellatrix Lestrange is a highly accomplished Legilimens and Occlumens, her abilities perhaps rivaling those of the Dark Lord himself, who was widely known as the greatest Legilimens of all time. And, as to how she managed to do so while mad — I believe Healer Llewyn has already established that the episodes of insanity were just that: _episodes._ The beginnings of the skill could have been cultivated during moments of calm, and then, after she had grown more accomplished, while she was in the midst of a bought of madness.”

“Thank you, Professor Snape; you may step down. Calling the next witness to the stand, we delve into our second counterpoint: that not only was the accused unfit to stand trial, but that she was also unfit to be incarcerated due to the law established by the High Council in 1961, Rosier-403 — incidentally related to the accused herself — which states that no woman in any stage of pregnancy may be imprisoned regardless of her criminal status.”

_“Excuse me?”_

“I believe you heard me quite clearly, Cornelius.”

“The accused has no child to speak of!”

“And that, Cornelius, is precisely the issue. Mr. Vance, would you please take the stand and state your full name and occupation?”

“Edward Ivan Vance, resident Healer at Azkaban Prison.”

“Mr. Vance, you held the same position two years ago as you do now, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And you were Healer-In-Charge when the accused was first imprisoned?”

“That I was, Chief Warlock. Have been for near-on forty years, now.”

“Please describe in full detail to the court every interaction you have had with the accused during her imprisonment.”

“There was only just the one; about three weeks in, I was called upstairs because the new kid on guard duty said he heard someone screaming — nothing more than usual, mind; they all do. I told him to shove off on account of it being nothing important, but he said that something was up and I had to come and _listen,_ at least. Well, I had nothing better to do — hardly anyone ever gets brought to the infirmary, see, even with every one of them needing it — so I followed the boy up to the thirteenth floor, and it was odd, but he was _right._ ”

“What was odd, Mr. Vance?”

“Well, there was somebody screaming, as usual, but what was funny about it was that there were _words_ in it, too. Not the usual garbled blubbering that they all do, but real words, like somebody knew what they were saying. You don’t ever get that.”

“What were the words, Mr. Vance? What was Bellatrix saying?”

“Objection: assumptions will not be drawn from the witness statements.”

“Overruled; we are only speaking of one subject. The assumption of the person referred to is rational. Continue, Mr. Vance.”

“Well, I didn’t believe it much at first, so I listened harder, and I heard her saying — well, lots, Chief Warlock. _Don’t you dare do this,_ she kept saying. D _on’t you dare; it’s too early. It’s too early, damn it; how do you expect me to take care of you like this? No, no, you’re too little; you’re too little, I can’t let you. I won’t let you.”_

“To whom was the accused speaking, Mr. Vance?”

“Well that was just it, wasn’t it? I didn’t know, so I kept on ‘till I got to her cell, and there she was, moving about, and I can tell you that’s right odd. None of them ever move; you toss ‘em into the corner on their first day there, and that’s where they stay ‘till someone comes along and pulls ‘em out, or ‘till the day they die; whichever comes first, and it’s that last one for most of them.

Anyway, there she was, pacing up and down her cell, Dementors right outside the door — I shooed them away right quick, I can tell you that; never liked those damn things — and she was still talking. Remember it like it was yesterday; you don’t often hear a coherent human voice in that place. I _’m supposed to take care of you, but I can’t if you’re so little. I’m supposed to protect you; how can I protect you if you’re out here all tiny and fragile? Stop it, stop it — damn it to Circe, stop it!”_

“What did you do then, Mr. Vance?”

“Bloody busted in there, didn’t I, and damn the consequences, but it was too late, then. She was holding her little belly and crying hard as anything I ever seen, and then begging me to help, but by Morgana, once you’ve seen a certain amount of blood come from a woman with a belly that tiny, it’s over, and ain’t nothing you can do to help it.”

“What happened after that, Mr. Vance?”

“Well, I brought her down to the infirmary to see what was what. Had to carry her; she didn’t like that much, but her legs weren’t going to hold her up all that way. So once we got down there, I cast the regular diagnostic spells — all the usuals, you know. She was at thirteen weeks, and nothing wrong with her body on its own; strong, you see. It would have been healthy and well-bred, but not with where she was. Those prisoners don’t get proper food, or movement, or sunlight, but that’s not even what would do it; it’s the damned cold and horror of it all. You try to imagine having Dementors right beside you day and night and trying to raise up the strength to keep your own life going, let alone a little one.

“The funny thing about it was that she stayed . . . present after that. When they all come in, they’re pretty much senseless, and she was no different; worse, even, ‘cause she was already crazy and we all knew it. But after that day, even though she was never alert, even though she was groggy and miserable and full of nightmares like the rest of them, she was at least partly sane. I ain’t seen that madwoman from the Prophet since that day, even knowing it’s probably temporary; maybe prolonged shock. She’s still a right nasty piece of work.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vance. For the purposes of the trial scribe, could you please state explicitly what happened to the accused?”

“Sure thing, Chief Warlock: Lestrange was ten weeks pregnant when she came to Azkaban. She lost the baby three weeks later on account of the living conditions, mainly malnourishment and a weakened magical core.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vance. You may step down — is that a hand I see, Lady Malfoy?”

“I wish to speak.”

“Certainly; please state your full name and occu — ”

“Narcissa Penelope Malfoy. Mother.”

“You expect us to listen to evidence provided by a Death Eater housewife?”

“Objection! Comment is prejudiced and unnecessary. Jury will not interject.”

“Sustained. What is it that you wish to say, Lady Malfoy?”

“First of all, as with Professor Snape, I believe that my husband and I have been acquitted, and as such, I would request that your court treat me accordingly. Secondly, I will be blunt: even with the clear evidence that my sister should not have been imprisoned, it is no secret you are going to attempt to prevent her from assuming guardianship of Harry Potter. I would like to make perfectly clear that it is none of your concern whether she does so or not.”

“Lady Malfoy, if you are suggesting that we entrust He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s most faithful follower with the care of the infant who brought about his demise, I suggest you reconsider.”

“I will not waste words, Minister; the Wizengamot does not have the authority to declare the new guardianship of Harry Potter invalid. However, if it will soothe your conscience, Bellatrix will not be a danger to Harry Potter; this I may say with absolute certainty. Certainly, she will object at first to raising the child who vanquished her Lord, and be highly disgruntled, and have to spend an unhealthy amount of time raging and ranting and reconciling herself to the idea, no doubt destroying half of my drawing room in the process, but she will not harm the boy. Perhaps she is mad, and perhaps that makes her thought processes difficult for simple minds to comprehend, but you have to understand something about my sister, and that is that she is immeasurably loyal.”

“To He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, yes.”

“To whatever idea most catches her fancy. My sister is obsessive and highly volatile, partially due to her psychological issues, but, for the most part, because it is simply who she is. If she is offered a good reason for taking care of the child, then she will latch onto it as firmly as she did the Dark Lord.”

“And when He returns, Lady Malfoy?”

“Chief Warlock, I don’t think that paranoid conjecture — ”

“Neither paranoia nor conjecture have anything to do with the matter, Cornelius. Lord Voldemort will return.”

“For the sake of argument, in the impossible event that He _does_ return, Dumbledore, how will that aid the progression of this case? Surely the accused will recall her former devotion and return to his side without any regard for a child she has raised.”

“You underestimate my sister, Minister. She is far more complex than you can possibly understand. It is pointless to cross that bridge until we come to it.”

“And you, Lady Malfoy? If He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returns, will you flee back to his side along with your sister and husband, claiming the same innocence before him as you professed to us?”

“Objection!”

“ _Must I remove the jury from the hall?_ Is this to become a closed trial? I warn you, Belby, to remain wholly silent from this moment forward, or you will be escorted from the courtroom alongside Mr. Spinnet.”

“My husband and I will do as we see fit in order to sustain the way of living to which we are accustomed, Minister. I will admit we do not present the most honorable picture, but after all, self-preservation and cowardice are not crimes. What we do if the Dark Lord returns shall be determined if and when He does so; at this moment, however, our allegiance is to the Light. You have no disloyalty to fear from us at the present time.”

“The day we trust Death Eaters will be the day your husband is revered as a respectable gentleman.”

“That would be today, then, Mr. Belby.”

“You believe that people consider Lucius Malfoy as such?”

“Whether _people_ do so or not is none of my concern; however, since you spoke in passive voice in your previous sentence, I am left to assume that the opportunity for reverence is open to anyone. _I_ consider him as such, and in this matter, mine is the only opinion of any consequence.”

“You believe yourself to be better than me?”

“That would be ‘better than _I_ ,’ Mr. Belby, and yes, I do, with my husband alongside me as your superior.”

“You consider me scum.”

“Well done, indeed. I sensed you to be a perceptive fellow.”

“I consider you less respectable than dirt.”

“Yes, I’m certain you do. It is for the best; your disdain leaves no need for me to be polite.”

“You’re an insufferable wench.”

“Again with your perceptiveness, sir; you’re getting rather good at this.”

_“Filthy bloodwhore!”_

_“Tsk._ You lose points for a lack of creativity. Really, you ought to speak to my husband if you wish to improve your arsenal of filthy names for me, though the circumstances in which you employ them will undoubtedly be different — ”

“ _Enough! This court will come to order!_ This childish banter has persisted for long enough! Chief Warlock, unless we can produce another witness —”

“It happens that we can, Cornelius. Incidentally, I would like to point out that the Lady Malfoy is correct; while we may delve into the prospect of Bellatrix Lestrange’s impending guardianship as deeply as we wish, there is little we can do on that front. The Contracts are binding; if we determine to release her, she will become Harry Potter’s guardian alongside Sirius Black.”

“If she cannot be trusted — ”

“That is what I will attempt to find out, Cornelius, but bear in mind that we have precious little influence on the matter. The law states that all other available options must be exhausted before a guardianship may be annulled. Unless we can prove that Madam Lestrange will be a danger to the boy, there is nothing we can do.”

“Very well, then. In the interest of determining the advisability of the Contract, we shall call forth more witnesses. Anyone who can speak to Harry Potter’s safety when placed with the accused is requested to step forward — you wish to speak again, Snape?”

_“Professor_ Snape, and yes, I do.”

“Very well, proceed; there is no need to restate your occupation.”

“I believe I am correct in assuming that one of the fears of the Wizengamot is that the accused, being mentally unstable, will prove a dangerous or unsuitable guardian for the Potter boy regardless of her affiliations?”

“That is correct. Can you provide sufficient evidence to the contrary?”

“That is for you to determine. On the matter of Lestrange’s illness, I believe that Azkaban has shocked her system enough to temporarily offset the disorder. It is fighting fire with fire, or in this case, madness with madness; her mind would not have had the capacity to retain its insanity under the effects of the Dementors. From my knowledge of the workings of the mind, it is my belief that, at least temporarily, she has been given a clean slate in terms of her disorder. Once the effects of the Dementors have been relieved, however, it is likely that she will relapse.”

“And, Professor Snape, how does this support the claim that she will be a suitable guardian for young Mr. Potter? If, as you say, she will relapse, surely the boy will not be safe in her presence.”

“Not if she relapses, no, but that is where I come in.”

“Where _you_ come in?”

“Please, Cornelius, allow the man to speak. What do you suggest, Severus?”

“Lestrange will need to rebuild her Occlumency barriers. As you are aware, I am a fully qualified Master of the subject. I am also familiar with Lestrange; the Dark Lord taught us both the science of Legilimancy and Occlumency. I daresay it is controversial to say so, but we could not have had a more thorough teacher — oddly enough, there is something about the threat of a brutal death that encourages you to focus.”

“You’re claiming the ability to set Lestrange’s mind to rights?”

“I do not have the Dark Lord’s power, and even if I had, fixing the problem is not possible by another’s hand, if at all. Only Lestrange can control her own madness. Nevertheless, I am willing to coach her; we are familiar with one another, are aware of each other’s style, and work on moderately similar skill levels. I believe that I can help her to rebuild the barriers, beginning from the moment that the Dementors’ effects wear off. To begin with, in order to stabilize her enough to work with simply an insane person as opposed to a mindless monster, I can trick her mind and attempt to balance it, at least temporarily, possibly by startling her reflexes into putting her mental shields back up.

“As for Harry Potter, she will not be a danger to him as long as I work with her properly. In fact, I’m not convinced that she would pose a threat to his wellbeing regardless of her mental state. Since we are discussing Harry Potter, of all people, I am sure we are all aware of the power of maternal love. Lestrange, as we have all just determined, has been a mother, and mothers . . . seem to have an extraordinary soft spot for children — even those who are not their own.”

“ . . . Very well, Professor Snape. Should the accused be released, helping to manage her disorder will become your responsibility. Have you any more information for us? No? Then let us call another witness — ah, Mrs. Tonks! Chief Warlock, if you will.”

“Please take the stand, and state your — ”

“Really, enough with the formalities; we have heard it several times already. Andromeda Ophelia Tonks.”

“And what is your occupation, Mrs. Tonks?”

“I own a private Healing practice when I am not busy raising my daughter.”

“Andi — ”

“I would request that you refrain from calling me that, _Lady Malfoy,_ unless we are willing to slip entirely into old habits, in which case the other hundred or so occupants of this room should vacate the chamber indefinitely.”

“Mrs. Tonks, what evidence can you supply to suggest that the accused would not be a danger to young Harry Potter?”

“I must concur with the Lady Malfoy, Chief Warlock. The accused is pliant-minded and could easily be convinced to hold a new affiliation. And, as much as I hate to admit it, if she has truly lost a child of her own . . . I knew her once, Chief Warlock. Bellatrix’s mind may be lost, but instinct was always the stronger base for her actions, and she has always allowed her emotions to run rampant. She will feel the loss of her baby deeply, and being confronted with another, the instincts she never had a chance to fully experience will take over; while emotionally torn, she won’t be capable of harming Harry Potter. Unfortunately, I cannot promise the same for her potential treatment of Harry’s other guardian.”

“Sirius Black is the cousin of the accused, is he not?”

“That is correct, Chief Warlock. There are certain underlying . . . family tensions, as it were. Regrettable, but prominent.”

“Funny; I thought there were enough of those in the room already.”

“Belby!”

“No, no, he’s quite right, Minister. As a former member of the House of Black, I quite agree that our tendencies are rather . . . volatile.”

“Brutal is more like it. And incestuous to boot.”

“All Pureblood families are, Belby; a fact with which you, clearly, are unfamiliar.”

“And praise sweet Morgana for that, though I will thank you not to take digs at my blood status.”

“I married a _Muggleborn,_ Mr. Belby.”

“So you did, deprived of all other options. Cousins are one thing, Minister, but there are deeper familial sins alive to fall prey to; perhaps there is another reason besides justice that we see Mrs. Tonks and the Lady Malfoy here today in defense of Madam Lestrange.”

“Perhaps there is, Mr. Belby, and I’m certain no man in this room would dare to object, least of all you, if your suspicions happened to be accurate, but let me make this quite clear: desire is relative. Lust is but a shallow truth, and perhaps, being shallow creatures, we may indulge, but no matter the object of my defense, I have better ways to occupy my time than by fueling your desperate wet dreams.”

“That’s quite enough! Podmore, escort Belby from the hall immediately! Mrs. Tonks, I will request that you _please_ comport yourself with _dignity_ for the remainder of this trial; old family prejudices have no place here.”

“Certainly, Minister; my sincerest apologies.”

“Chief Warlock, if you would.”

“Certainly, Cornelius. Mrs. Tonks, have you stated all of the evidence you wish to present?”

“Yes, Chief Warlock.”

“Then you may step down. Is there anyone else who has anything to say? — Very well, then, we shall proceed. As those of you familiar with the Justice Reform Act of 1957, Gaunt-893, are undoubtedly aware, those persons found guilty of criminal acts, yet determined to be insane, are subject to observation, and are not to be held accountable for their actions. Those tried and determined Unfit and Exempt will be subjected to compulsory psychological treatment and placed under restrictions by Magical Law Enforcement.

“In the case of Bellatrix Lestrange, the vote shall determine whether or not she is to be released from Azkaban on the grounds that she should not have been incarcerated in the first place due to her pregnancy and unstable state of mind. While the criminal charges placed against her will not be rendered invalid, her responsibility for her actions will be dissolved upon the declaration of insanity, rendering her guilty but unable to be held accountable.

“If released, Lestrange will assume guardianship of Harry James Potter, jointly held by Sirius Black. A Trace shall be placed upon her, and restrictions set so that the use of any unapproved spells will result in the revocation of her right to carry a wand. She will attend regular sessions with a Master of Occlumency and a Healer of psychiatric specialty in order to properly manage her illness, and will be subject to frequent evaluation by a Mind Mender and by the Wizengamot. Until her ability to do so with reasonable safety has been approved by a Mind Mender, she will not be permitted to travel unsupervised outside of her place of residence. If, in time, her illness becomes manageable, all restrictions shall be lifted, and she shall be absolved of all charges.”

“Statement procured. Chief of Council Mafalda Hopkirk shall swear in the Wizengamot.”

“Members of the Wizengamot, are you in full understanding that you are about to perform a joint Unbreakable Vow, and that should you recant any part of the oath at any point, not only you as an individual, but the entirety of the Wizengamot, will be held responsible?”

“Aye.”

“Do you understand that while the Vow pertains only to this trial, failure to comply with any of its terms will result in the instant death of every member of the Wizengamot?”

“Aye.”

“Very well; we will begin. Do you vow to make your decision based on logic and reason, unhindered by personal opinions, prejudices, grudges, or emotions?”

“We vow.”

“Do you vow to put forth your honest decision without being swayed by the decisions of your colleagues?”

“We vow.”

“Do you vow to determine the outcome of this case based on your understanding of the charges and counterarguments laid down in this court today, and not on the potential results of your decision?”

“We vow.”  
 “Do you vow to be held accountable for your decision in the case that you attempt at any point to revoke it, as in the case of it resulting in future animosity?”

“We vow.”

“You have been sworn in; Minister.”

“Those in favor of determining the accused Unfit and Exempt? . . . Those in favor of determining the accused guilty without reservation . . .”

“On this date, Thursday the twenty-seventh of August of the year nineteen-eighty-three, with a standing vote of forty-seven to twenty-three, the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot of the British Ministry of Magic declares the accused, Bellatrix Gwenyvere Lestrange, Unfit and Exempt. This trial is adjourned.”

The courtroom explodes.

* * *

 

_A Courtroom, Wizarding London_  
_August 28th, 1983_

“We have gathered in court and council to evaluate the case of Sirius Orion Black. Requesting confirmation of presence of the following: Chief of Council.”

“Chief of Council, Emmeline Vance.”

“Confirm: Governor of Council Affairs.”

“Governor, Amelia Bones.”

“Confirm: Senior Secretary.”

“Senior Secretary, Mafalda Hopkirk.”

“Confirm: Scribe.”

“Scribe, Horatio Abbott.”

“Confirm: Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.”

“Chief Warlock, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.”

“Defensive witnesses approved?”

“Witnesses sworn: Remus Lupin and Albus Dumbledore.”

“Wait, wait, wait — Mafalda, that’s not right. He can’t be the Chief Warlock and a witness; the witness cannot question _himself.”_

“Quite right, Minister. We’ll need him to abstain; the Senior Executive will have to take the Chief’s chair.”

“Surely _not._ ”

“Then surely you can think of a _better_ solution, Dumbledore?”

“ . . . Then again, perhaps I can abstain just this once.”

“Thank you. Mafalda?”

“Right away, Minister. Senior Executive of the Wizengamot, can I hear confirmation?”

“Lucius Malfoy, confirming, Madam Secretary.”

“Confirmed. On this date, the twenty-eighth of August, nineteen-eighty-three, Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic and judge presiding, conducts the post-incarceration trial of Sirius Black, henceforth referred to as the accused — yes, what is it, Abbott?”

“I was only wondering, sir, why I don’t have the record of Black’s primary trial.”

“This is the primary trial, Abbott.”

“But I thought that Black was already imprisoned? How can you have the primary trial after he has been incarcerated? What happened to his initial trial?”

“ . . . _Well_ , the fact of the matter is that, due to the, _ahem_ — circumstances — there, er . . . wasn’t one.”

“ . . . I see.”

“May I carry on, Abbott?”

“Oh, er — yes, of course, Minister.”

“Thank you. The trial will be conducted in the presence of the full Wizengamot as dictated by the laws set forth by the aforementioned. Do I have confirmati — yes, what is it, Abbott?”

“Minister, we aren’t in the presence of the full Wizengamot.”

“Aren’t we?”

“No sir. Only a half dozen of them are here.”

“But I thought that — what happened to the rest of them?”

“They didn’t come, Minister; it was decided that half a dozen would do since the outcome of the case is, er . . . already determined.”

“That is, er . . . _ahem_ ; that is quite right, Abbott — meaning, of course, that this is only a formality, but still necessary, and of course, will be done — properly, as I say, yes, er — Madam Secretary?”

“Trial commencing: Senior Executive will read the full criminal statement.”

“Pardon me, Minister.”

“Lucius?”

“There is no criminal statement.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Black was sent straight to Azkaban for a presumed life sentence; there was no criminal statement drawn up.”

“Yes, well . . . very well, then; proceed with the — the, er — ”

“Calling the first witness to the stand. State your full name and occupation.”

“Remus John Lupin.”

“Occupation?”

“I have none.”

“You are unemployed?”

“That is correct.”

“Why?”

“Senior Executive, objection!”

“Who said that?”

“Belby, Minister.”

“Belby? I thought I had him thrown out.”

“That was yesterday, sir.”

“He’s back?”

“Yes, sir. A length of time was never specified for the suspension.”

“Throw him out.”

“On what grounds, Minister?”

“Do I look like I bloody care what grounds? _Out,_ I say — thank you, Madame Bones. Senior Executive, please proceed.”

“Mr. Lupin, how do you explain Black’s innocence when more than fifty people saw him blast Peter Pettigrew to bits?”

“By informing you that Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, and James Potter all became unregistered animagi during their fifth year at Hogwarts. Peter Pettigrew is a rat.”

“Excuse me?”

“He can turn into a rat. You are aware, I presume, that the sewers were blasted open by the curse that was cast? My guess is that Pettigrew transformed into a rat and disappeared into the sewers with his . . . kinsmen.”

“ . . . I see now why you are unemployed.”

“Objection!”

“Spinnet!”

“Senior Executive, proving me right is quite simple; Sirius Black will transform into a dog if you ask him to. He is also fully aware of what Pettigrew did. You can question him yourself if you are in doubt.”

“And how do you know, Mr. Lupin, that Black did not cast the curse?”

“Has no one checked his wand? I would have thought that that would be the first thing to be done.”

“ . . . Mafalda, send a Patronus telling the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to give us a record of the last spells Sirius Black performed.” Grudgingly.

“Right away, Minister.”

“In the meantime, Mr. Lupin, if Black is not mad and did not, in fact, commit the murders in question, how do you explain his maniacal laughter as he was escorted to Azkaban?”

“In all honesty, Minister, I believe he was amused. The whole rat situation was rather ironic.”

“Are you implying, Mr. Lupin, that Peter Pettigrew sold Lily and James Potter to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

“I’m not implying it, Senior Executive; I’m stating it.”

“Where is your evidence?”

“I have spoken with Mr. Black; he and Pettigrew switched positions as Secret Keepers for the Potters only a few nights before Lily and James were murdered. Pettigrew sold them to Voldemort.”

“Dumbledore, you are not permitted to interject! You are not the standing witness!”

“So sorry, Cornelius. I shall zip my lips.”

“Incidentally, you say they switched Secret Keepers?”

“They did, indeed.”

“Why would they do such a thing?”

“Because Pettigrew was a skivy little pansy and would never have been suspected.”

“And yet he sold Lily and James to Voldemort.”

“Slimy git.”

“Please, Mr. Lupin, attempt to show more professionalism. Incidentally, why didn’t you or Black come forward with this information at the time of Black’s capture and imprisonment?”

“My dear Senior Executive, would you have believed us if we did?”

“I would have.”

“Thank you, Albus.”

“Order, please, order! Madam Bones, which witness is supposed to be speaking?”

“I’m not certain, Minister; I confess I’ve rather lost track.”

“Mafalda, has Magical Law Enforcement sent a reply yet?”

“They have just now, Minister. The last spell Black cast was a refilling charm.”

“For what, might I ask?”

“For a tankard of Firewhiskey.”

“Minister, might I suggest that we draw this trial to a close?”

“Perhaps that would be best, Lucius. The Wizengamot shall now be sworn in — ”

“Minister.”

_“What is it, Abbott?”_

“Black’s been proven innocent; there is no need to vote.”

“ . . . Right. Well, that’s an afternoon wasted. This trial is adjourned.”

* * *

 

_British Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement_  
_August 28th, 1983_

_Undesirable Number One: Mass Murderer Peter Pettigrew, Animagus. Do not attempt capture; if sighted, notify the Department of Magical Law Enforcement immediately._

The posters glare from every street corner in London, invisible to Muggles, pinned up by a collection of over-eager interns the moment the trial ceases. On the top floor of the Ministry, the corridors of Magical Law Enforcement are in an uproar.

“I want every Auror team on duty searching every suspected location for the fugitive; when those locations have been covered, search everywhere else. He lost his wand, but he might have picked up another somewhere, so be on your guard. He blew up twelve Muggles with a single curse, people; I need you to be vigilant. All other duties will be postponed. I don’t care if you see _You-Know-Who_ on the street; you ignore him and bring me Pettigrew.” Moody, looking more imposing than ever in his full auror uniform, glares about the Auror Office with both eyes in fierce focus.

Other than flinching a little at the casual mention of Voldemort, the roomful of assembled Aurors stands tall and stoic.

“Alive or dead, sir?” a trainee shouts from the back. Moody’s blue eye swivels over to him.

“Alive is preferable, but I’m not picky,” he growls decisively. “If Pettigrew wanted to go out in bite-sized pieces, the option is still available to him. If he gets on your nerves, I won’t begrudge you a nasty hex or two.” The group nods collectively, murmuring their assent, and begins to disperse. “One more thing!” Moody barks, sending them all scrambling back to listen. “Pettigrew can transform as quickly as anyone; every rat you see, you Stun on sight. Don’t make me lose an Auror to a slimy rodent with a missing toe.”


	2. Return: August 29th -31st, 1983

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've noticed some confusion over how Harry is related to Bellatrix and Sirius; I guess I should have explained a little better. Basically, there was a theory that Pottermore has now disclaimed but that I'm using for the purposes of this story, that Harry's grandparents were Charlus and Dorea Potter. Dorea was the aunt of Walburga (Sirius's mother's) and Cygnus Black III (Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa's father). That would mean that Harry, Bellatrix, Andromeda, Narcissa, Sirius, and Regulus all had a common great-grandparent (Cygnus Black II), which would make Harry their second cousin.

_The Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade_  
_August 29th, 1983_  
  
“Rosmerta, I gather you’ve heard the news?”  
  
“The very latest, Aurora.”    
  
“And?”    
  
“And what, Septima?”     
  
“When may I expect to see my old favorite trio back in action?”    
  
“Honestly, Seppy; it’s been _years_ — no; I’ve told you a hundred times, Everard, I don’t _serve_ virgin Ogden’s — _years,_ Seppy, and a war besides, and yet somehow you expect that after a lifetime and a half we’ll jump back into that old boat?  After all this time?”    
  
“A war and a lifetime is nothing; you should see the column Rita’s been writing on the senior editor’s trial coverage,” Aurora Sinistra interjects with a slight cough.    
  
“I’ve seen it.”  Rosmerta sets down the tankard of Butterbeer with a heavy _clunk._ “That’s not to say I’ve read it through; nasty stuff that woman’s gotten her fingers into these days.  I can’t imagine the work she must go to in order to clean it out from under her nails; surely a simple _scourgify_ can no longer suffice.”  
  
“Then I see that nothing’s changed if you want to speak of Rita’s dirty hands,” remarks Septima slyly.     
  
“It’s no care of mine what cherry pies Rita sees fit to dig her fingers into,” Rosmerta counters with an air of great nonchalance.  “Though, one would have to admit that it’s rather a habit of hers.”  
  
“Yes, one _would_ have to admit that, wouldn’t they?” emphasizes Aurora with a devilish grin.  A moment later, she is forced to duck in order to avoid a backhanded lash with a tea towel.  
  
_“Honestly,_ Rory.”  A moment later, and Rosmerta breathes out heavily, resting her elbows on the bar top.  “Besides, even if Rita were to — _ahem_ — _wash her hands_ of her new _habits,_ so to speak, that’s not to say I’d be interested.  Especially not given . . . Merlin’s sake, Seppy, you’ve _read_ the trial coverage: Bella’s a nut and a half, even without the added tension of having fought on opposite sides.  Circe, she was a nut and a quarter even before she went manic over the cause, and it wasn’t as though I ever had the slightest control over her then.  Bella ruled the roost, and Rita and I tagged along as best we could; I think that was apparent to all.  To assume we could snap back into our old way would be ludicrous.”  
  
“Perhaps, if Rita were to initiate . . .”  
  
“I hardly think so; halfway down page 47 of this morning’s _Prophet,_ she made it quit clear how scandalous she finds the entire scenario.  _‘Notorious psychotic killers entrusted with the care of our precious Boy-Who-Lived’_ — _honestly._ ”  Septima’s smirk is highly satisfied.  
  
“So you _did_ read cover-to-cover, then.”    
  
“Shove off, Seppy.”

* * *

 

_An Apparition Point, the North Sea_  
_August 30th, 1983_  
  
After a blurred succession of days in which Sirius spends his hours drifting in and out of reality in a hazy sort of doze, he finds himself leaning weakly against a wall in the cavernous entry hall of the prison, awaiting the arrival of a troupe of Aurors.  A small, mousy-faced wizard, the one from the infirmary, is with him.  Occasionally, when Sirius is suddenly unable to retain his balance, the man will step over and offer him a supporting arm.    
  
The third time he does it, Sirius decides to speak.  
  
“What’s your name?” he deigns to ask, having struggled back to the wall.  His shoulder aches from being pressed to the cold stone.  There are no Dementors down here with them, but they surround the entire island, and the chill can be felt in any corner of the prison.    
  
“Edward,” the wizard tells him simply, cheerfully moving once more to grip Sirius’s elbow.  “Vance, that is.”  Sirius accepts the aid once more without protest; he’s far past the point of arguing.  To do so would require far more energy than he can muster up within these walls.  He’s not even sure he remembers what it feels like to want to move.    
  
“Vance,” he says slowly after several minutes, during which his companion has no doubt forgotten that they spoke at all.  “You’re related to Emmeline, then?”  Edward Vance nods with a brief glance towards his charge.    
  
“Emmy and I are cousins, father’s side.”  Sirius’s mind seems to be working very slowly.  He wonders if it has anything to do with the countless potions he’s been given in the past . . . he doesn’t know how many days it has been.    
  
“I’m sorry about Yvonne,” he offers, referring to the paternal aunt who went missing just before the war’s end.  Edward Vance nods.  
  
“I’m sorry too.”  She was found in pieces.  So was Pettigrew, or at least so they were meant to believe.     
  
“They’re letting me go, then.”    
  
“Proved you innocent two days ago.  You would have been out sooner, but you weren’t strong enough to Apparate, and you can’t travel by Portkey to or from Unplottable locations.”  Sirius refrains from informing him that he is aware of that; evidently, being removed from the Wizarding World for several years has the effect of making everyone consider a person to be some sort of heathen.  He’s an outcast now, blood status be damned.    
  
“They know I didn’t kill the rat?”  Edward Vance nods.  
  
“They know.  They’re looking for him.”  Sirius nods, too.    
  
“If I find him first, I won’t be innocent anymore,” he informs him.  Edward Vance nods again.  
  
“They know that, too,” he concurs.  Sirius allows a smile to twitch up the corners of his lips.  
  
“That’s good.”    
  
“Good,” Edward Vance agrees.    
  
******  
  
The Aurors, when they arrive, treat him with a great deal more courtesy than the last time he encountered them.  He figures that the fact that they’re dragging him away from a lifetime of misery rather than toward it has something to do with the mutual lack of violence.    
  
As a group, they struggle down the slick and rocky path through the rain to the base of the islet where a tiny, rotten dock marks the Apparition Point.  Sirius briefly has time to be grateful that they at least made the effort of casting an Impervious charm to keep him from getting entirely soaked.  It’s a shame, though, that they haven’t included some unknown sorcery to keep him fully upright; it’s only been two years, but he’s spent the entirety of them curled up bonelessly in the corner of a cell.  It’s safe to say that, at this point, his motor skills are not yet back up to par.  
  
He withstands the Apparition with a great deal more dignity than he hopes for — that is to say, he miraculously avoids a splinching, and only ends up vomiting copiously into the grass upon landing.  
  
Sweet Merlin, _grass._  
  
The world is oddly lit, shrouded by a thin sort of dusk that he associates vaguely with a memory of clear evenings, but the color is so shockingly vibrant even in the half-light that it actually sends him off on another round of vomiting.  It’s soft beneath his fingertips, intertwined with coarse beds of weeds that creep up through the turf, but Merlin, it’s so _bright._   The filth and dreariness of Azkaban infected everything in view, physical and intangible alike.  The sky, the air, their clothing; everything.    
  
It has been twenty-two months since he has seen color.    
  
He’s reluctant to relinquish his current view, but upon turning his head skywards to wipe his mouth, he discovers that the air is dimly infused with pastel shades of pumpkin and magenta.  On the far horizon, a sunset is burning, the cause of the odd light.  The sun itself swims in a blurry sea of gold and purple swirled by clouds, while above, the sky blends in a subtle gradient from an almost white turquoise to dusty grey, and from there upwards into deeper navy, and into pitch.    
  
He can’t envision ever tearing his eyes away from this sight.  
  
It happens that he doesn’t have to of his own accord; as Sirius continues to gaze skywards in awe, a faint breezy sound greets them, followed by a ear-splitting crack, and with a yell, Sirius rolls sideways into his own vomit just in time to avoid being crushed by four other figures who appear out of thin air precisely where he was just kneeling.    
  
Having swiped his tongue clean for the second time, he takes in the sight before him and struggles onto an elbow.  
  
_“You.”_   The greeting is cold, simultaneously more and less so than he would normally prefer.  When he considers it, though, there isn’t really a clear manual on how he should be taking this particular turn of events.    
  
Bellatrix is apparently semiconscious, supported by three Aurors and looking thoroughly dead on her feet.  Her half-open eyes roll a little in his direction, but the motion is distinctly lacking in recognition; all he can see are the whites, and by the way her neck is currently lolling, he’d wager that she’s about thirty seconds from a complete loss of consciousness.    
  
“Nice day, cousin,” is the barely distinguishable mumble that trips from her lips into the clean air.  The effort of speaking seems to drain her remaining energy, for she sinks out of the Auror’s grips and into a heap almost immediately with a low moan.  
  
_“Grass,”_ she mutters with an air of nauseated surprise, and Sirius can’t restrain a chuckle.    
  
_“There_ you all are; for Merlin’s sake, we expected you hours ago.  Really, is it so far beyond the Ministry’s capabilities to actually be on time?”  
  
“Dreadfully sorry, Lady Malfoy; as I said, they were unfit for travel.”    
  
“Clearly your efforts haven’t helped them any.  Perhaps, if I had been permitted to assist as requested, they might have arrived in a less deplorable state.  Tell me, has my sister splinched herself to death, or is she merely so sickened by your inferior Apparition abilities that she is unable to raise her head?”  
  
“As your sister is not bleeding out, Narcissa, perhaps it is best to presume the latter.  I daresay they will be better off once we have gotten them inside, particularly considering the fact that Black seems to have swum here from Azkaban in his own sick.  Perhaps you would like to take the lead, Lucius?”    
  
Sirius’s head is spinning well enough to render him practically incoherent, but the last voice evokes such a blaze of emotion within him that his disorientation is temporarily alleviated.  
  
“That you, Snivellus?”  He chooses to ignore how croaky his own voice sounds, thick with acid and lack of use.  He hasn’t the mind to categorize precisely the raging feelings that have arisen at the presence of his old arch-nemesis, but he puts it somewhere between hatred and relief.  He’s feeling awfully powerless at the moment; at least he has the satisfaction of knowing that his enemy was in the wrong when he himself has just been proven innocent.  In fact, he’s almost grateful, knowing what he does of how former Death Eaters’ lives must have spun out since the Fall.  It won’t have been glamorous.  
  
That might be enough to compensate for being exposed to the slimy git in such a sorry state.    
  
“Indeed, Black.  Believe me, I am no more thrilled than you are.”  Sirius’s vision has narrowed so that the man is but a bat-like blur in his peripheral view, but as the world begins to tilt sideways, he manages a rather loopy grin.  
  
“Always had a feeling we’d endure a meeting like this,” he mumbles, half-amused.  He can feel a low chuckle twitching in his ribs.  
  
“Never mind that now, gentlemen; we’ve much to do.  Lucius, would you mind?”  There follows a shuffled movement, and then Sirius protests half-heartedly as he is hefted to his feet.    
  
“Do silence yourself, mutt, before I decide I’d rather aid my sister-in-law — and frankly, just between you and me, I’d much rather face an Acromantula at full maturity,” Lucius mutters into his ear, and this time, a true, hearty snort explodes from Sirius, as well as several chunks of vomit.  A guffaw issues from somewhere to his right, and Sirius deduces that the Aurors have not yet vacated the premises.  He can imagine, from their perspective, how enjoyable it must be to watch two haughty, sophisticated purebloods wrapped around a filthy ex-convict.    
  
Another weak groan breaks the air, and Sirius summons his remaining strength to watch Snape, stooping over, heft the elder Black cousin into his arms.  From her, there issue no sounds of protest; clearly, she has abandoned all pretenses of consciousness and surrendered to the oblivion that, Sirius has to admit, looks rather welcoming through tunnel vision.  Determined to last a little longer, and unwilling to let the last blurry haze of the sunset fade from his view, Sirius struggles to keep his eyes open.  He doesn’t want to lose a single second of his time back in the fresh air and the light, but it’s growing more and more difficult . . .  
  
“For Circe, mutt; let yourself lose it for a bit.  The world will still be here when you wake up.”    
  
Sirius decides that’s logical enough for him.

* * *

 

_Little Whinging, Surrey_  
_August 30th, 1983_  
  
Vernon fidgets in the center of the room, beady eyes darting back and forth between the television, which is displaying the latest golf tournament, and his wife, who for once has fallen still before the window in the stead of performing another scrub-down of the sparkling kitchen.    
  
“It’s — it’s a weight off our shoulders, Petunia; a — a relief.  What a relief, isn’t it?”  His nervousness is apparent, though whether it can be attributed to the events of the past few days or to the golfer who just missed his swing is not clear.  Petunia jolts a little, the movement reflected in the windowpanes.  It has almost fallen dark, but she keeps her eyes fastened on the front lawn.  They’ve had any number of evening callers these last few nights.  Briefly, she closes her eyes to shut out the view of the darkened street.    
  
“It _is,_ Vernon — it is.  How could you suggest . . .” she fumbles, “ . . . it _is_ a relief, I’m telling you.”  Standing up a little straighter, she gives herself a shake and draws a deep breath.  When she speaks again, her voice is firmer than before.  “We’re going to be able to put the cleaning supplies back in that cupboard instead of keeping them under the kitchen sink; you know how I hate bending over to get the Clorox.  There will be no more abnormal _noise,_ either; no wailing in the middle of the night, no ungrateful begging.  I only wonder who . . . they’ll raise him to be just like one of them,” she finishes.  Her unreadable expression makes it unclear to Vernon what he should take those last words to mean.  In the place of asking, he supplies a grunted opinion.  
  
“Filth.”  Petunia blinks; her face falls stoic once more.  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
“We would have stamped it out of him,” he adds, a touch louder, though the words are lacking conviction.  Petunia blinks again.    
  
“Of course,” she agrees firmly.  Then she pauses, a strange expression overtaking her, something between a wince and something wistful. It’s almost a grimace; not quite a smile. “Except — well, I think of _her_ at his age, a little older, maybe, and — one might have tried their very best, but I don’t think anyone could have ever stamped the magic out of Lily.”

* * *

 

_St. Mungo’s Hospital of Magical Maladies and Injuries,_  
_and A Cottage on Fullworth Lane, Kent_  
_August 31st, 1983_  
  
For the past several twelve days, Harry has lived in a sort of haze.    
  
Firstly, there was the surprise appearance of a purple-cloaked, bearded, bespectacled man in Mrs. Figg’s living room.  Fortunately, he only woke to the sight of this strange new entity rather than being conscious for his arrival, as his entrance in a whirl of emerald flames would doubtlessly have proved rather shocking.  Then there followed a march across Mrs. Figg’s lawn to Number Four, accompanied by a tall woman with a rather severe expression.    
  
Harry was unable to fully comprehend the conversation that took place immediately thereafter; all he remembers now is that the bearded man, seeing his discomfort upon being in the same room as an outraged Uncle Vernon, requested to be shown to the bathroom.  Leaving the severe woman and the Dursleys to snarl furiously at one another, Harry did so, and ended up sitting with the man in his cupboard, which the man declared delightful despite the space being rather cramped due to his overlarge hat.    
  
Harry doesn’t remember much of what happened after that; all he knows is that one moment he was explaining to the bearded man the game of make-believe he played with the spiders by his pillow, and the next, he was waking briefly in a strange place to the hustle and bustle of many people and several loud voices before slipping back into delirium.    
  
On the twelfth day, he wakes fully for the first time, though the bought of consciousness doesn’t prove to be lasting.  He is in a bed, he notices, which immediately sends his young mind into overdrive, because he’s not allowed to go near the beds at Number Four other than to make them in the morning.  His cupboard contains a cot, and so far as he knows, that is all that anyone like he can be expected to deserve.    
  
This situation, therefore, is rather discombobulating.    
  
The bed — really a crib — in which he lies is small and comfortable, the linens a crisp pale blue.  A soft blanket, patterned with clusters of winged animals he doesn’t recognize, is folded over his feet.  He notices immediately that he is clean and warm, and that, most shockingly, though he is hungry, no part of his body is in pain.    
  
This last revelation induces panic.    
  
“Unca Vern’n?”  The first call is almost a whisper.  Even for that of a toddler, his voice is tense.  
  
At the immediate materialization of a stranger out of thin air at his bedside, Harry shrieks aloud.    
  
“Whoa there!”  The exclamation is startled.  “Take a Calming Draught, kiddo; it’s all right!”  Curled into the corner of his crib, Harry blinks.  The sight of the young man in funny clothing is so far beyond anything he has ever seen that he has no way of comprehending it.    
 “Unca say don’t talk,” is all he can come up with to suit the situation.  To his surprise, the man chuckles.    
  
“Is that right, then?” he says with a shake of his head.  “No worries about that; you don’t have to talk.  Since it seems you’re up, I’m just here to move you.  We didn’t want to until we were sure you were going to come out of it.”  Harry, it seems, can’t help himself.  
  
“Move?”  A nod answers him as the man bustles about his bedside, gathering several bottles up and enclosing them safely in a traveling case.    
  
“Since you’re no longer in need of critical care, you’re going to stay with a nice family for a few days,” he explains.  Harry doesn’t bother asking why; he doesn’t understand where he is, or what is going on, and besides, sleep is beckoning again.  His head feels heavy.  “Rest now, kiddo.”    
  
Harry does; he allows himself to relax, understanding that for now, there is no Uncle Vernon to scold him.  He recognizes that he is being lifted out of the crib and into someone’s arms, and dimly notes the somewhat dizzying sensation of movement that accompanies a limping gait.  Then, abruptly, the world goes green and blurry around him, he’s spinning, and the confusion nearly renders him inert once more.  
  
His mind is still hazy when the spinning stops with a jolt, and after a brief conversation he can’t quite make out, he senses himself being passed from one pair of arms to another.  What jolts him the most, even in his sleepiness, is the change in sensation; the arms he was in before, despite being comfortable, were stiff and rather chilly and smelled strongly of bleach and antiseptic.  He registers deeply the change in atmosphere, even in the room, cozy, as he is enfolded in a warm embrace.    
  
A soft cooing sound reaches his ears, a melody of low murmurs, and then he is being cradled against someone’s chest.  A steady thrum of something runs beneath his body — not a heartbeat, though he is aware of one pressed against his shoulder, but more of a hum of energy.  He blinks his eyes open briefly, catches a glimpse of soft curls and warm skin; snags the scent of lilacs and something like sunshine.    
  
A slender hand presses against his back, another cups caringly at the back of his head, and Harry sleeps.      
  
When he rouses again, it is to full consciousness, and the first thing he notices is the warmth.  Arms are enfolding him, bare skin beneath his upper body, and with a strange jolt of something inexplicable, Harry understands that he is being held.  It’s a strange sensation, one that he knows consciously that he has never experienced and yet one that he finds painfully, achingly familiar.  He has seen Aunt Petunia hug Dudley, often hundreds of times each day, but she has never extended the same affection to _him._ Puzzled and disoriented, he squirms.    
  
Immediately, a soft voice is hushing him, cooing to him sweetly.  
  
“It’s all right, little one.”  Harry blinks open his eyes to find himself enveloped in a cradle of arms, his little face tucked into the crook of someone’s neck.  A heartbeat keeps a metronome of moments beneath him, steady and easy, and his body rises and falls with the person’s even breaths.  “You have nothing to fear.”    
  
Carefully, sensing somehow that in this soft voice is a note he should obey, Harry raises his head so that his cheek is no longer pressed against skin.  A subtle, accommodating shift of the stranger’s arms occurs.  Squirming a little, he finds that he’s able to rest fully upright, his weight supported beneath him and across his back.      
  
A sweet smile greets him when he is able to focus his blurry vision.     
  
“Hello, little one.”  Harry tenses, though he doesn’t move.  Voices that are not Uncle Vernon’s, Dudley’s, or Aunt Petunia’s put him on edge.  Strangers hardly speak to him, off-put, he supposes, by Vernon’s constant mantra of “shy boy; best not to bother him.”  Even Mrs. Figg, familiar though she is, is prone to startling him on occasion.  Besides, he’s not _allowed_ to talk to strangers; he’s usually not allowed to talk at all.    
  
“It’s confusing, I know; you take your time.”  Harry blinks.  His hand, without his notice, has wound itself tightly into the deep chestnut curls that spill across bare shoulders.      
  
That’s interesting.  Aunt Petunia never bares her shoulders beyond the narrow sleeves of a sundress; he heard her once telling Uncle Vernon that it’s an unseemly practice.  This woman seems to have no knowledge of that, if indeed it’s true.  In fact, her attire is so foreign to him that he has to take a moment to full absorb its oddity.    
  
Beyond the bare shoulders and collarbone against which he is resting, a gown with lengthy, open-pattered sleeves begins midway down the upper arm.  Its bodice appears oddly tight, and he wonders vaguely at how it is held together, as the material, something velvety and soft with laces up the front — looks fairly insubstantial.  Below, a skirt cascades all the way to the floor, light and swishy, just barely exposing the toes of some sort of sandal.  The entire suit is cut of a deep plum shade.  
  
Envisioning Aunt Petunia’s reaction, Harry is incapable of comprehending this most unfamiliar attire.    
  
He has yet to look at the stranger’s face, perhaps subconsciously fearing what he should find.  More likely, he’s afraid of looking too hard only to discover that he is dreaming, that it is Aunt Petunia after all, and that he’s about to be punished for daring to want a hug.    
  
“Harry, sweetheart, I’m going to put you down now.”   And there it is; Harry’s heart sinks at the realization that this all is some fantastical daydream.  Aunt Petunia would never hold onto him for long.  “I want you to meet the family.”    
  
Wait, what?  
  
Before Harry can register the movement, he’s being lifted again, only this time, he finds his feet planted firmly on a rug.  Immediately, there is a low swoop of clothing, and at eye level with him there appears an angular, cheerful face.  Harry nearly shrieks.    
  
“Hey, hey — it’s all right, little one,” the strange woman soothes, catching his arm as he rears back with a startled babble.  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.  Do you know where you are?”  A question: Harry can manage a question.  He’s accustomed to answering them all the time at the Dursleys’ — most often with _it wasn’t me_ and _p’ease, I didn’t mean to_ and _I’m sorry._  
  
Tentatively, he replies with a shake of his head.    
  
“You didn’t hear them talking at St. Mungo’s?”  Another shake.  “No, I suppose you didn’t; you were in and out for nearly two weeks.  It took quite some time to get your strength back up.”  Harry doesn’t know quite how to respond to that, so he waits with his gaze trained patiently on the lower half of the stranger’s face.  He’d rather avoid eye contact until he knows for certain who she is, but Uncle Vernon’s constant command to _look at me when I’m talking to you_ rings too hard in his ears.  He doesn’t want to upset this stranger too soon; she’s been kind to him so far, but he’s not sure how long that will last and he isn’t yet versed in the severity her reactions.    
  
“You’re allowed to talk, you know,” the woman adds with a slight smile.  Harry follows the quirk of her lips with interest; he’s not used to that expression being directed at him.    
  
Did she say he was permitted to speak?  
  
“‘Tay.”  The whisper is barely intelligible, the breath in it short and secretive.  Tentatively, Harry scrunches up his eyes, bracing himself for a smack, but it doesn’t come.  
  
“All right,” the woman agrees instead.  “Will you look at me, then, please?  It might be easier to explain what has happened if we can look at each other while we talk, yes?”  Harry bites his tongue.  His eyes remained fastened inquisitively on that little smile.    
  
“ — ‘Tay.”    
  
“You’ll look at me?”  
  
“‘Tay.”  The woman lets out a short breath, though her smile doesn’t fade.    
  
“That’s close enough for now,” she decides aloud, and Harry determines that after a minute or two sans violence, they’ve reached a point of tentative alliance.  Maybe this woman will be something like Mrs. Figg.    
  
Where is Mrs. Figg, anyhow?  All he remembers is being carried from her living room in the arms of a tall man with a beard — and did they walk into the _fireplace_ to get here?  
  
Now brimming with questions, Harry raises his gaze.  The eyes that he meets are dark and warm, a little like the cocoa he’s seen Aunt Petunia make but that he has never been allowed to touch.  
  
“There are those big eyes,” the woman greets him with a smile.  Kindly, she extends a hand for him to take.  “It’s nice to meet you again, Harry — my name is Andromeda Tonks.  Welcome back to the Wizarding World.” 

* * *

 

_A Manor in Wiltshire_  
_August 31st, 1983_  
  
The bedroom they’ve stuck him in is opulent, all arched ceilings and tapestries and four-poster curtains.  They haven’t closed the sweeping drapes, though; someone, doubtlessly Narcissa, has left them open to the light, and though Sirius winces at the ferocity of the sunlight, he is deeply grateful.    
  
He recognizes that to the unprepared eye he must be a rather pitiful sight, barefooted in his half-open dressing gown with his palms and nose pressed eagerly against the windowpanes.  He doesn’t care; the sunlight feels _spectacular,_ like the elixir of life dousing his skin, so he lets the robe fall fully open.  It just feels so _nice,_ and even the view of the Malfoy’s lawn right now is enough to bring tears to his eyes.  Everything is so _bright_ and _clean._  
  
He doesn’t particularly care to see his reflection at the moment, reluctant though he is to admit his own vanity.  He’s sure his knees are knobby beneath the silken dressing gown, his shin bones and ribs sharp.  It’s all right; he has no doubt that Narcissa will fatten him up, and the silk feels nice enough for him to overlook it for the moment.  His hair, he knows, is long and wild, though it is now clean and unsnarled thanks to last night’s extensive bathing.  
  
Merlin, he _bathed._  
  
It took hours, hours of Narcissa dutifully untangling his mane and scrubbing his skin until it nearly bled.  They went through three loads of bathwater before he was no longer sitting in mud and filth.  He didn’t even have the strength to protest being bathed in the same room as his mad cousin, Narcissa flitting back and forth between them and Lucius and Snape tossing out suggestions from behind the Japanese screen.  Judging by the way Bella’s head lolled on the edge of her tub, though, he figures it’s safe to say that she didn’t care either.    
  
He won’t pretend that he wasn’t a little intrigued, at points, to see how her body was faring; they were captured at around the same time, but he honestly can’t say who received rougher treatment.  Both of them are hollow and skeletal, her curves and both of their muscles stolen by malnourishment and lack of use.  He remembers encountering her in battle once or twice, recalls the fierce warrior who brought so many to their knees.  It was hard to reconcile that image with the half-mangy creature sprawled naked in the tub, hardly female, hardly _human._    
  
They often bathed together as children.  He remembers not understanding when they got too old.    
  
The sound of a doorknob clicking causes him to startle a little; he’s getting accustomed to the absence of screaming, and small noises sound like gunshots in the tranquility of the outside world.  Expecting Narcissa, he turns.  
  
_“Circe’s sweet cunt-licker!”_  
  
_“Get out!”_    
  
It’s unclear which one of them roars their shock first, but he’s fairly certain that their expressions are identical.  His cousin stands in the doorway, a little staggery on her feet and also only half-wrapped, clad in a red sheet that she has dropped to the floor in shock.  Her eyes are bugged out with astonishment, fastened firmly on his crotch.  Shite.  He forgot about his dressing gown.  
  
“What in Merlin’s bloody balls are you doing in here?” he snarls when he has regained his senses.  Bella is irate.  
  
“I needed a piss!”  
  
“In _here?”_

“I forgot how to get to the bathroom!”  
  
“How did you forget?  You practically _lived_ here!”    
  
“It’s been a while!  In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve been in _prison!”_  
  
“I haven’t forgotten!”  
  
“You have a funny way of showing it.  You miss pissing in the corner of your cell?”  
  
“Do _you?”_    
  
They’re glaring at each other now, shooting daggers across the room.  Neither of them have bothered to cover themselves.    
  
Bella’s eyes flicker back down below his waist.  
  
“Lost some manhood, I see?” she snarks.  
  
“Lost some teeth, I see?” he fires back nastily.  Bella scowls.  Sirius scowls back.  Neither of them move.  
  
Then, from behind Bella, there issues the sound of low chuckling.  Lucius, it seems, has been drawn by their shouts and witnessed a portion of their interaction.    
  
“This wasn’t exactly the wakeup call I was expecting,” he snickers when they both turn to goggle at him, “but I’m not going to argue with some early-morning entertainment.  Been awhile since you’ve seen each other naked, has it?  You make your fascination quite clear — or has it just been that long for both of you?”  Furiously, both of them open their mouths to retort, but Lucius cuts them off with a wave of his hand.  They close their mouths, affronted.  “As amusing a spectacle as this is,” he continues, “I would request you refrain from hollering such profanity up and down my halls in the presence of my son.”  That’s when Sirius registers the sight of the little blond toddler, wide-eyed, clutching his father’s robe tightly with the hand that doesn’t have his thumb jammed in his mouth.    
  
Bella snags up her sheet, wrapping it furiously around herself once more, and stalks from the room without another word.  
  
Sirius gathers his gown at Lucius’s eyebrow raise and folds his arms in a failed attempt at nonchalance.    
  
“Is there something else you’d like to say?” he asks rather waspishly when Lucius doesn’t immediately vacate the premises.  Lucius cracks a grin.  
  
“Breakfast is served.”    
  
******  
  
He forgot what it was like to live in such luxury.  It’s a chore, even, to simply remember how to pick up a fork and stab his food instead of diving in with his fingers.  From the way that she grips the knife across the table, he senses that Bella feels the same, though he figures that it could also be due to the urge to stab him that she is doubtlessly nursing after this morning’s altercation.    
  
The house elves are keeping them supplied with no end of food, and though he’s tempted to dive right in and scour the plates clean, he’s held back by the charm Narcissa has placed on the plates to keep them from scarfing down the waffles and scrambled eggs.  While it’s making him antsy, he’s thankful; he isn’t especially keen on vomiting again.  Bella, on the other hand, seems to be having a particularly difficult time restraining herself.  Watching her across the sunlit table, he notices the way the corners of her lips tremble and her fingers twitch.  Each swallow seems frantic, more hurried than his.  He wonders if she was kept less nourished than he; it does seem the type of thing the Ministry would do.    
  
He wonders what they found that convinced them to let her out.  His own circumstance is no mystery to him; obviously, someone — probably Remus — must have informed Dumbledore of his and Peter’s switch as Secret Keepers and convinced the Ministry to check his wand.  
  
Thinking of Remus and Peter makes his chest clench, and he tries not to let his thoughts stray any further.  He knows that if he thinks of Prongs, he’ll lose his conviction and end up vomiting Belgian waffles all over Narcissa’s pristine tablecloth.    
  
_Belgian waffles._ How ludicrous, after nearly two years of imprisonment, to be eating waffles in the sun.    
  
Like a gunshot through the birdsong-infused morning air, a loud _bang_ startles Sirius from his thoughts.  Quickly, he straightens up, immediately on the defensive, and scans the patio for the source of noise.  
  
Bella has slammed down her goblet and pushed back her chair and is glaring daggers at all four of them.    
  
“What is it, Bella?” Narcissa murmurs calmly, reaching for another helping of whipped cream.    
  
_“Why?”_  
  
“Why, what?” Narcissa indulges, her tone unchanging.  
  
“Why in Morgana’s saggy tits am I sitting in your _garden_ eating _waffles_ instead of rotting away in the corner of my cell?”  
  
Interesting, Sirius realizes: maybe the two of them aren’t so different as they’d like to think.    
  
“Because the Ministry reviewed your case and determined that you were fit to be released,” Narcissa replies without a twitch.  Bella’s knuckles have whitened around the edge of the table.  
  
“Well _why_ in Merlin’s bloody name have they done _that?”_   she hisses.  
  
“Yes, I’d like to know that, too,” Sirius interjects, laying down his fork.  Bellatrix glowers at him.  Lucius sets down the _Prophet_ and eyes them both, then turns his gaze to Narcissa with his eyebrow quirked.  
  
Narcissa sighs.  
  
“Very well,” she cedes reluctantly, ceasing to mess with the bowl of cream.  “The Ministry reviewed your cases and discovered that Sirius was wrongly accused, and released you on the grounds of mental instability at the time of imprisonment and the by-law Rosier-403.”    
  
Bellatrix blanches.    
  
_“They found out?”_ she hisses after a moment of unintelligible sputtering, and Sirius is paying attention just closely enough to notice that it’s more of a shaky whisper.  Narcissa eyes her older sister carefully.  
  
“They needed a concrete reason to release you, Bella; I had to tell Dumbledore.  He convinced Healer Vance to give the statement.”  Bella is paler than the Hogwarts ghosts; Sirius watches her intently, curious.    
  
“I — they weren’t supposed to — no one was — _no,”_ she splutters out, and in her muddled hysteria it is nearly a wail.  “Cissy, why in Merlin’s name would it ever be important enough to tell?  I was supposed to wait in there for Him, to show my loyalty; I wasn’t supposed to leave!  I would have waited — I would have waited for him — I was going to wait, and he was going to reward me . . .” she trails off into a violent hiccup that conceals what might be a tiny sob.  “He was going to reward me, Cissy; Cissy, why would you do that?  Why did they need me to leave, why did I have to break my word to wait?”  Narcissa appears lost for words, sending uncomfortable glances to Lucius over Sirius’s head.    
  
Lucius grimaces at his wife and turns to face his sister-in-law.  Sirius observes with interest, curiosity now fully aroused.  
  
“Do tell, Lucius,” he agrees.  “Why did ickle Bella have to break her promise to her precious Dark Lord?”  Bella’s glare is murderous, though broken up by her continued distressed hiccups.  
  
“Actually, mutt, this applies to you too,” Lucius replies evenly.  “Believe me, they weren’t keen on it, but it had to be done, given the, er . . . circumstances.  They would have preferred just one of you, but the contract makes clear that all persons eligible . . .”  He clears his throat again and pauses.

_“Go on,”_ Bella hiccups through clenched teeth.  Sirius has now entirely forgotten the waffles that lie dripping melting cream onto his plate.  Lucius shifts slightly in his seat and inhales, clearly preparing himself for what he clearly believes will be a highly impressive statement.  
  
“The fact of the matter is,” he tells them, “you’ve both been released on the same grounds.  As of the moment you’ve both regained your health, you will hold joint custody and legal guardianship over the Boy Who Lived.”     
  
A beat, then Bella’s fingers clench, and all of the goblets shatter.  
  
_Baby Prongs._  
  
Sirius leans forward toward the cream pitcher and vomits. 

* * *

 

_A Cottage in Yorkshire_  
_August 31st, 1983_  
  
The patched suitcase, bound with rope, lies open on the moldy armchair in the main room of the dark, semi-derelict cottage.  The damp floorboards are infused with a musty stench, and the little furniture that fills the room is rickety.  In the murky light, distinct shapes are difficult to make out, but the wizard makes no move to cast a _lumos_.    
  
His clothing — a pair of corduroys and a well-worn waistcoat, completed with a pair of threadbare socks — is tattered.  Thrown across the back of a chair lies a patched traveling cloak, ready to be snatched up on the way out.    
  
It has been two whole years.  In that time, he has managed to occupy and subsequently vacate sixteen premises similar to this, twenty-three if one is to count the occasional ventures in between during which he has huddled beneath bridges and in the corners of dark alleys.  Of course by now he is but a shallow wreck of the man he was two Octobers ago, beaten and worn and so much older in appearance than he truly is.  Still, he nurses the private hope that he has somehow managed to retain a vestige of dignity.  He has been firmly determined that, despite the lifestyle he has been forced to adopt, he will not acquiesce to being something uncivilized.    
  
Two whole years, and as he lays them in the battered suitcase, he still folds his socks over precisely the way he used to teach them to do.  Despite his best efforts, it was only he and Lily who ever bothered to care.  
  
_“You’re an uncultured bastard, Padfoot, you swine.”_  
  
_“What does that make me then, eh, Moony?  Padfoot’s got his fancy blood to excuse his horrid manners; mine’s really worth much less.  I suppose you think me a rat of some sort — ”_  
  
_“Actually, that would be me.”_  
  
_“Yes, well, you, Peter, seem determined to show the rest of us up by imitating dear Moony’s housewifely habits.  It’s really unbecoming, you know; you can’t make a dragonhide purse out of a troll’s skin.”_  
  
_“And I suppose you know all about trolls, don’t you, Prongsy?”_  
  
_“And just what is that supposed to mean, Padfoot?”_  
  
_“You seem to have an awful affinity for them, that’s all; I suppose you could have always elected to become that as an animagus instead.”_  
  
_“Oh, really?”_  
  
_“Yes.  You know, now that I think about it, I’m really starting to see a resemblance . . .”  A grin._  
  
_“Cheeky bastard.”_  
  
_“You worship me.”_  
  
_“Of course I do.”_  
  
Two whole years, and despite the fact that one is a cold corpse, another a barely salvaged wreck of a convict, and the third a murderer on the run, they permeate every inch of his thoughts as though they’ve never left him at all.  Every day, every hour, every particle of every minute for two years, they have refused to leave him in peace.  At first, he attempted to block them out, to hide away from the ghosts he knew would follow him to the ends of the earth.  Afterwards followed the stage of desperation, of seeking out their voices simply to have company, to reassure himself that though his clothes were torn and damp and the cottage walls caving in, he was once _important,_ was once a smaller part of a whole. 

It won’t be whole again, not with James and Lily filtering into dust beneath the earth and Peter the traitor who brought about their deaths, but Padfoot is still here, though undoubtedly a little lost; he is still here.  The two of them are still here, and wrecked though they are, the way he sees it, they have a duty to fulfill.  Suddenly, repairing his patched shoes will no longer be his priority, because somewhere, hundreds of miles away, is a little boy who will need to know that he was once part of something, too.    
  
Maybe he hasn’t stopped being important, after all.    
  
Securing the last knot in the fraying rope, Remus straightens and weighs the suitcase in his hand, stooping to avoid the low-swinging lightbulb, and doesn’t bother to glance around the filthy room one last time before catching up his traveling cloak and moving swiftly out the door. 


End file.
